


Burnt Toast Sundays

by writergirl8



Series: 30 Minute Fics [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Like this is so fluffy it's straight-up not acceptable, Post-Canon, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 12:57:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12864969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirl8/pseuds/writergirl8
Summary: It’s Sunday morning. There’s rain tapping gently against the windowsill, sliding down leisurely. Lydia stretches, cat-like, across their bed before throwing back the covers and padding into the kitchen. The darkness of the outside makes it feel like evening, but seeing Stiles at the sink making her breakfast like he does whenever he is non-functionally stressed out rids her of that illusion immediately. He vanishes into taking care of her like he would take care of his dad in high school, with the dedication that comes with loving people too hard.Note: I just remembered that we call Flaming Cheeto "Burnt Toast" sometimes so I want to make it real fuckin clear that, despite the title, he's not in this fic. This is not the place to read about gross processed food. This is some organic shit that's crazy good for you but still tastes like it's not.





	Burnt Toast Sundays

**Author's Note:**

> I'm about to take a nap but I wanted to chill with Stydia first. 
> 
> The title is from You Are In Love by T Swizowski. There is, as per usual, no point to this fic, it's unedited, it's just me writing more crap that I think is hot af but is an aphrodisiac to literally no one else because there's zero sex in in the entire fic. 
> 
> Inspired by two asks: One of Stiles and Lydia cuddling half-naked on a rainy day, the other one about Lydia calling Stiles baby when he's sick or sad.
> 
> Enjoy and remember Stydia <3

This morning is one of the few mornings of the year in which Stiles wakes up before Lydia. There are several possible causes for the scenario, obviously. It could be her birthday (it’s not). It could be Christmas (it’s not). It could be the apocalypse (debatable). Or it could be that Lydia had been right, and that Stiles is just as disheartened as she’s been suspecting for the last week. 

She’d had to threaten him to get him to go to bed last night, ignoring his groans of protest when she slammed the lid of his laptop shut and hauled him off of the couch. His eyes, which had been drooping shut, were red when she looked at them in the light of the bathroom. He’s exhausted, he’s frustrated, and right now that’s manifesting in taking care of her. 

It’s Sunday morning. There’s rain tapping gently against the windowsill, sliding down leisurely. Lydia stretches, cat-like, across their bed before throwing back the covers and padding into the kitchen. The darkness of the outside makes it feel like evening, but seeing Stiles at the sink making her breakfast like he does whenever he is non-functionally stressed out rids her of that illusion immediately. He vanishes into taking care of her like he would take care of his dad in high school, with the dedication that comes with loving people too hard. 

It makes Lydia’s heart, already so warm for him, soften even more. She slides up to him in sock-covered feet, crossing the floor until she’s got her arms around his body, her nose pressed against the fabric of his clean t-shirt. Knotting her arms tight, Lydia presses a kiss between his shoulder blades before burying her face more efficiently, leaning her entire body against his. 

To neither of their surprise, Stiles’ body relaxes instantly. 

“Hey,” he says, fingers trailing across her arm. “I was gonna make you breakfast in bed.” 

“I wanted _you_ to still be in bed.” 

She doesn’t know that he’s smiling, but she thinks he probably is from the noise he makes, a small, contented sound in the back of his throat. Stiles sets his spatula on the counter before turning around, sliding his hands down Lydia’s body until they’re resting over the thin fabric of her panties. The rest of his body slumps down too, loosening until his face is dipped into her neck. 

“I like these,” he murmurs to her, fingering the lacy top of her underwear. “And I love you. Good morning.” 

“Stop trying to distract me,” she whispers back, buried in his t-shirt and quite content to be there. “You’re driving yourself into the ground.” 

“Well.” He pulls back, turning to the stove again, cheeks a little flushed as he flips a pancake over. “That escalated quickly.”

“How long did you sleep?”

“Eight hours.” 

“Not how long did you lie in bed playing on your phone and watching me sleep. How long did you actually sleep?”

“You don’t want to know.” 

He pops a piece of bacon into his mouth before reaching for a plate, and Lydia grabs silverware out of the drawer. 

She reaches around him to turn off the stove, then tugs on the band of his pajama bottoms. 

“Come back to bed,” she murmurs. “We can figure out your case after you sleep.” 

When she snatches the plates out of his hands and walks purposefully back towards the bedroom, Stiles trails after her like a lost puppy, as though the sight of her ass in cheeky panties and her hands clutching two plates of food is truly too good to resist. Lydia slides smoothly onto the bed and Stiles stumbles after her a few moments later, almost upsetting the plate of food. 

It’s just like him to take care of her before himself, but the bags under his eyes let on to the fact that right now it’s more about avoidance than anything else. He’s on his back, staring at her with the type of sloppy love that Lydia has spent her life trying to avoid; the kind of sloppy love that she is always trying to learn how to project back to him. 

“What?” he asks, scrunching up his face into a goofy expression as he sees her scrutinizing him. She catalogues the wrinkles that weren’t there before, like the line between his brow that is now permanent even when he isn’t frowning. Lydia loves it. She thinks it makes him look old, and that makes her smile more than she can say. She likes her crow’s feet far less, but then Stiles kisses the palm of her hand or scoops her up into his arms when they’re just standing around doing nothing, and Lydia doesn’t mind them anymore. 

“What are you doing to yourself?” The rhetorical question is whispered tenderly as her fingers come up to stroke his temple. Stiles’ eyes flutter closed, and then he’s wriggling closer to her until he’s got his head in her lap, giving her license to run her fingers through his hair and brush them against his cheeks. 

“I’m not used to being this stuck.” 

It takes him a long time to say it. When he finally does, Lydia doesn’t answer right away. She takes a bite of pancake even though she isn’t hungry, munching thoughtfully as she muses at his words. 

“I know you’re frustrated,” she begins, choosing her words carefully. “But what you do? It’s not an exact science. It’s based on things that we don’t know— and that’s why you’re there in the first place. That’s what they need you for.” She bends over, leaning down to kiss his forehead upside-down. “But you’re doing an incredible job. So don’t beat yourself up too much, baby,” Lydia whispers against his skin. 

His smile spreads like she’d just thrown a warm blanket over her; sighing contently, Stiles wraps his arms all the way around her waist and squeezes her tight. 

“Thanks,” he tells her, meaning it, and not for the first time, she feels like maybe she’s repaying him for all the times he’s been a lifeline for her. 

Sometimes she wonders if she’ll ever be as essential to Stiles Stilinski’s chemical makeup as he is to hers. 

“I’ll help you figure it out. If you want. You can show me your research later.”

“Mhm,” he agrees sleepily, and it’s very carefully that Lydia falls back onto the bed, letting Stiles adjust his body accordingly, so that his head is resting on her breasts, his arms still tight around her torso. She focuses on making her breathing slow and even, and she can tell he’s falling asleep. They stay entwined like that until Lydia hears his breathing slowing down, getting heavier. It’s with a great deal of pride that she watches him fall asleep, feeling very much like she’s a magician who had just pulled-one-over on her husband. 

_Take that, Stiles Stilinski,_ Lydia thinks to herself before reaching towards the top of the bed for a pillow and dragging it to put it underneath her head. 

She’s just settling into the position, ready to go back to sleep, when her phone begins to vibrate on the bedside table. Lydia freezes, checking to see if Stiles is still asleep, then stretches out, reaching for it with her fingers. They can’t reach, and she’s glad when the phone finally falls silent on the dark wood. 

The moment of relief is short lived, because moments later the ringtone of Stiles’ phone echoes shrilly through the room. He startles awake, flailing a little as he bolts upright, then flailing again in surprise when he spots the mutinous expression on Lydia’s face. She reaches around him, snatching his phone off of the bed and glaring harder when the caller ID says Scott’s name. 

“ _What, Scott?”_

“Lydia?”

“I _just_ got Stiles to go to sleep!” she barks, ignoring the look of indignant defense on Stiles’ face. 

“Um, hello?” he says. “I’m right here. And I’m not an infant!”

“Debatable.” She covers her face with her hand to block out the miffed expression he wears and doesn’t bother to move it when he licks her palm. She knows _exactly_ where that tongue’s been. “This better be good, Scott.”

“Um,” says Scott. “Can you put me on speaker?”

Rolling her eyes, Lydia pulls her phone away from her ear and taps the speaker button. 

“Hey buddy,” says Stiles around her palm, voice muffled. 

“Hi,” says Scott. There’s a long pause on the other end. Stiles and Lydia exchange alarmed glances. 

“What?” asks Lydia, voice cold, anxiety coursing through her stomach. She takes her hand off of Stiles’ face and wraps her fingers around his hand instead. “What, Scott?”

“Oh!” He sounds like it hadn’t occurred to him that she would read anything into his tone. “Sorry, no, it’s nothing like that, it’s nothing bad, it’s just—” “Spit it out, buddy,” Stiles says warningly. “Lydia looks like she’s about to scream until her make-up mirror explodes. Again.” 

“I’m getting married,” Scott bursts out. Stiles and Lydia stare at each other. “Um, I’m getting married and… god, I just asked, and she said yes, and… I. You two are the first people I told, obviously, and I guess I’m still a little shocked but Lydia, obviously you’re a bridesmaid and Stiles… you’re the best friend I ever had. You’re… you’re my best friend, and I…”

“Scotty, just ask already,” urges Stiles, whose cheeks are flushed crimson with excitement. He’s so focused on staring at his cell phone like it’s actually Scott’s face that he doesn’t notice Lydia surreptitiously pulling out her phone and turning the camera on. 

“Will you be my best man?”

“YES!” 

The video recording that she takes of the ill-advised backwards summersault that Stiles does off of their bed gets played at Scott’s wedding, including the part where he pops up a moment later and clutches onto his hip. 


End file.
